Saturday, 1st December 2001, West Yorkshire
GREEN SHOOTS of winter wheat are springing up on the field below Storrs Hill. A few gulls fly over as I spot two white shapes in the field. They're not gulls . . . and they don't look like pieces of litter; through binoculars I can see that they are two large white mushrooms.
The moon rising above a nearby factory looms large. It's just past full and starting to loose its right-hand margin.
I climb into the attic to bring down an old bread-maker, repaired by my brother-in-law, which we're now passing on to our niece to try out. The box has been adopted as winter quarters; as I open it a small moth flies out, then a spider scurries out and finally we have to evict an unidentified insect from its snug home in the folds of the insulated wrapping.
This day last year